Beeby's See Sawn

Well, the day of my departure to my ancestral territory hasn't happened; I can only suppose that May Trees and her little playmates have either forgotten about their original intentions, or perhaps they've simply lost interest, and directed their miniscule attention spans elsewhere. Or perhaps the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria doesn't have a deportation arrangement with Catastan, Kittistan, Moggistan, or whatever the damn place is called; I don't know, and I certainly don't care.

Just to be certain though, I did check with Lareow - friend of Rats and Holy Emperor and Chief Panjandram of the Caedmeron Mousing Ministry, and he hadn't heard anything either. So the good news we've deduced from this is that I've been spared! When I joyfully told my master Caedmon, he rolled his eyes. He didn't believe it was going to happen in the first place.

One little pearl of consolation after all the grief and heartache this has brought me is that several legions of knuckle-dragging minions of the Northumbrian soothsayer and pantomime dame Beeby See are going to be presented with career opportunities in that familiar Northumbrian pastime called idleness. This cruel twist of circumstance has arisen allegedly because of the terrible financial mess the Kingdom is in; there isn't anything like enough money to feed the Beeby beast any more, since the Moneylenders are sitting on it all, and the overtaxed and rapidly shrinking population of Northumbrian wage-earners isn't bringing in enough of the unholy groats to sustain greedy Beeby's burgeoning empire. It's such a shame. But never mind.

At least - by way of consolation - the lovely Beeby still has intact her seventy thousand layers of managers, diversity commissars, homeopathy policy consultants, magic mushroom purveyors, professional humanists, climate change priests, luvvie slebs and apologists for the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire). I'm sure they'll be more than willing to lift their ample posteriors from their seats and take to their longboats, horses and carts to bring in some news to entertain their unemployed erstwhile underlings.. Hard times, indeed.

The Star Turn

Yesterday was a pivotal moment in the Tree Faction's Annual Unfortunates' Outing and Picnic. Or so the window-licking Tree acolytes would have me believe.. I've already passed my judgement.

As promised, Tondvig the Blur Dagwald of Caedmeron gave his definitive performance at the Ð Factor beano. I spoke with Caedmeron beforehand, and he told me he was going to give it his best shot, and a life in Political Leadership was the only thing he wanted - more than anything else in the whole wide world. I tried to look sincere as I wished him the best of luck. I'd already overheard Caedmeron's strange bird that instructs him in the ways of rhetoric and public oration, so I had a shrewd idea of what was to follow. All that remained was the actual performance before the judges.

With characteristic smoothness in his stagger, he strode onto the daïs and proceeded to sing his heart out. A number of verses were delivered immaculately in a different key from the mood music that was being used as his backing. The audience grimaced. Some wept or slept. Some passed wind noisily at both ends. Others died. On several occasions, his impeccable timing caused to him to start a verse half a bar behind the orchestra. I heard one of the admirers in the audience refer to it as "syncopation", but I know for certain that it was what is referred to in musical circles as a cock-up.

He sang about cats (there seems to be a strange obsession with cats at this Picnic), and hard times a-plenty; he deviated from one of his verses and praised the Northumbrian public who were paying off their debts to help the poor, moribund economy and the suffering leetle cheeldren of the Moneylenders. The original verse enjoined the noble Northumbrians to :

"..pay the Moneylenders' dues,

you know you simply can't refuse.."

This change of message caused no little controversy among the soothsayers, who were drunk with excitement and mead.

In the last verse, Caedmeron stepped up his performance and delivered a fortissimo anthem in praise of the mythical 'can-do' spirit of the Northumbrian people on their journey to their long-lost inheritance. Paradise is over the horizon (where it was yesterday, and will be ten thousand years' hence). It was rousing stuff. The enraptured crowd jumped to their feet and cheered in response to the sound of drawn swords from the Picnic's Thug Praetorian Guard. The judges were nowhere to be seen.

I crept into a corner, curled out a brown verdict - which I left uncovered - and promptly left. I'd had enough..

Tree Cheers

I've been having a simply marvellous time at the Tree Faction's Annual Unfortunates' Outing And Picnic. Considering the fact that this faction doesn't have a ruling mandate in the Witangemot – because it has to grudgingly share power with the feckless, magic mushroom-masticating Liberationists – it's surprisingly upbeat and optimistic. The mushrooms are certainly working: the Northumbrian economy is in tatters (if it exists at all), the long-suffering, overtaxed people are tightening their tunic belts, the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire) is tightening its malevolent, vice-like grip on the Kingdom, drunkenness and crime abound – and all's well in the world. Ah, bless.

When I mentioned the other day about the new theme of Fashion, I had no idea that the Trees were going to pander to popular culture – but they have. And how..

Last night I sidled along to a little Picnic side event and was frankly astounded at the unfolding spectacle; it was a full-blown version of the Ð Factor. I parked on the lap of a cat-friendly elderly lady and watched, fascinated. I hope I didn't purr too loudly..

All the line-up of the present series was there; the panel consisted of Brendan the jovial Irish monk, and the three new songster judges: Tulippa of Constantinopoulos and Keldra of Roeland, two female singers, and Gaedrich of Baerleow – a bearded minstrel from a bygone age. The assembly hall was packed, and the audience was a motley assortment of young and elderly Tree window-lickers and knuckle-draggers.

The first act was May Trees – the Northumbrian Kingdom Home Secretary. She sang a tender ballad in an assortment of random keys about a criminally insane immigrant who – despite his heinous crimes - was allowed to stay to reoffend in the green and Elysian Kingdom of Northumbria because he had a faithful pet cat called Fiddles. The words of the song brought grunts of indignation from the audience; such was their emotional power. I wasn't sure what they felt about the performance: I thought it was perfectly awful, and in response, I dug my claws into the unfortunate elderly woman whose lap was supporting me. I had to apologise and go onto an excessive charm offensive to maintain my place.

The next act was by the Supreme Clerk of Justice – a rotund, bumptious buffoon with a dismissive, devil-may-care attitude to life and the price of fish. He sang a merry ditty with a variety of themes in all the modal scales imaginable; the first verse was a denial of the factual content of May Tree's previous song about the faithful moggy; he then sang about the glorious Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire) and how terrible it would be if the Kingdom were to leave its tender, loving embrace. The sound of massed, synchronised gagging and vomiting almost drowned the noise of the applause following his performance.

Following these terpsichorean attempts was a succession of acts by various Tree politicos, singing about Kindergartens (Dagwald the Willard) and Debt (Oswine). Caedmeron is set for a special performance tomorrow..

After these performances, the four judges quietly conferred together, and calmly but firmly delivered their verdict to each singer in turn.

The repeated issuing of the words "I'm sorry…(pause…).. but I'm going to have to send you home" followed by hysterical tears became monotonous after a while, so I leaped of my host's lap and headed for the buffet to root around for a nice fish supper..

Off His Tree

There's been a recent announcement by the Redistributionist Faction - headed by the Beloved Leader and Dear Father Edweird the Milliner. Hooray for the Reds! Long live the victorious Class Struggle Against Universal Prosperity, Accountability and Freedom! I'm so pleased.


Apparently, the Great Strategy that is going to be unleashed by the  Redistributionists in their never-ending war on the evil superstitions and vulgar values of the Tree Faction is that they're going to attempt to demonstrate how Dagwald Caedmeron is becoming more of an extremist - a sort of Tree monster, who beguiles innocent and gullible people with smooth, hypnotic talk and kidnaps and eats their children as a mid-morning snack when their feckless parents aren't looking. Other Tree leaders from the past have been similarly subjected to such calumnious propaganda; Hilda the Tiler - the famous Tree lady leader from many centuries back was reviled in similar fashion.


As a strategy, it's destined to be wildly successful, given the unswerving support of the most influential Redistributionist soothsayers - Beeby See and her weird, pustule-faced and poison-tongued pal Guardy-Ann. Assuming that the members of the Northumbrian public are as routinely bovine and unquestioning as ever, they'll lap up anything that these wicked messengers say, and unthinkingly assume that it's Gospel truth. And when the Redistributionist Faction's Annual Unfortunates' Outing and Picnic (called their Jamboree because the jam comes tomorrow) takes place in a few weeks' time, the faithful will be in ecstasies. Deep joy. Yet another astonishing political triumph for Edweird the Milliner! Let's chalk it up with the other imaginary victories, children.


And so the show goes on. The Redistributionists are intensely jealous of the Tree/Liberationist Alliance, since they're now in the supreme Seat of Power - the same seat they themselves occupied for nine hundred thousand years. During that time, they established universal bankruptcy and criminalised the majority, while getting fabulously rich in the process through an intricate system of bribes and back-handers. And now they're simply desperate to spend vast amounts of money that the Northumbrian Kingdom doesn't even have, so that they can produce a formidable fighting farce of diversity co-ordinators, pigeon psychologists and cat license administrators. Every kingdom needs them, don't you know? That's what built Rome.


Considering Caedmeron has made identical noises as - and emulated the deeds of - his charming, chronically mendacious and bloodthirsty Redistributionist predecessor Tondvig the Blur, has opted for a mandatory quota of token women, Vikings and homeopaths to stand for the Witangemot, has waged a war in the hapless land of Cyrene, has enthusiastically ignored the people and contrary to public opinion has immersed the Kingdom deeper into the malevolent embrace of the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire), I really fail to see the difference. And if there's no essential difference between the Trees and the Redistributionists, why do they spend such an inordinate amount of time and money (that doesn't exist) demonising the opposition who resemble them anyway? Aren't they simply demonising their own likeness? Isn't that.... rather odd?

Things Cyrene and Unseen

The soothsayers - especially the partially impartial Beeby See - are in ecstasies about the victory of the rebels in the sandy, fly-infested Berber realm of Cyrene. Every day bears witness to more feverish slobber from the muzzles of fantasist soothsayers, who are desperately anxious to count every chicken - whether it's hatched or not - and most especially it doesn't even exist. The other day greeted us with the announcement that Trables - the principal city of that arid region - had fallen to the rebels, and that Murmur O'Daffy - the crazy, khat-chewing psychopath who had ruled the roost with an iron fist for three hundred and seventy thousand years - was defeated. Hooray for the forces of Civilisation, freedom and demockery-cy! Feaxede the fox and I were so delighted to hear the news: we danced for joy, and to celebrate the occasion, Feaxede shared some tender morsels of chicken carcass with me! Happy days.

This was a staggering achievement for a raggle-taggle army of urchins, wizened old men and goat-herders who hitherto hadn't known one end of a sword from another. But - as we're constantly reminded - this was accomplished through the determination and iron resolve of the oppressed masses. A stunning triumph of people-power against the overwhelming odds of O'Daffy's efficient and merciless fighting machine. Whatever. They don't even mention the special encouragement and moral support by the military advisors supplied by King Jose Borracho, the psychotically ambitious and deluded Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire)

Today brings quite a different picture. Instead of the scenes of overall conquest and delirious jubilation portrayed the other day, there are now stories of running battles and hand-to-hand combat in the Trables streets. O'Daffy had sworn a solemn oath that he would fight to the death to maintain his paternal care of his beloved people - and never ever leave his homeland Cyrene. However, on arriving at his palatial dwellings, he hasn't been found; he has mysteriously disappeared, leaving his loyal Praetorian Guard to do their patriotic duty and hold the fort.

Murmur O'Daffy's disappearance is one of those unexplained mysteries - I'm sure we'll never know where he went. Already the Northumbrians are talking about him in the same reverence as they do about the iconic songster Elvey of Preslode, reports of whose demise many hundreds of years ago were never accepted by his most ardent disciples.

I met a stranger in Streonaeshalch the other day; he was a bizarrely attired man of foreign extraction, with heavy eyelids, a peculiarly-shaped mouth and a thick accent; his name was - as I recall - Marmer of Gadfly. When I chatted with him about the recent events in Cyrene, he became strangely taciturn... I reckon he knows more about where the old scoundrel is than he's letting on...

Why Should The Cat Care?

As I walk out on my feline rounds through this lovely realm of Northumbria, my eyes and ears are greeted by the now all too familiar sight and sound of politicians and soothsayers slinging accusations at each other, protesting their own unsullied innocence and integrity. It's very touching to see that this Anglo-Saxon kingdom - now reduced to a mere provincial backwater and vassal state of the fly agaric-led Holy Roman Empire (which has no rightful claim to either a Roman heritage, holiness nor the dignity and greatness of an empire) is busy arguing the toss about the activities of the Prince Ruprecht Evil-Merodach soothsaying empire while the remaining serfs, yeomen, farmers, artisans, bakers, spinners, weavers and every other specimen of humanity are struggling to keep flesh on the bone - and the Grim Reaper is gadding about with a permanent smile on his face.

But why should I care? After all, I'm a mere cat in this grand scheme of things; at the drop of a hat I can forage for mice and birds, go feral like my ancestors, prowl, climb trees, spray marker scents on trees and gateposts and fight territorial battles with trespassing fellow felines.

True enough; I have enough of my original instincts to make my own way through life without being involved in the sordid and terminally stupid affairs of fallen human beings. But the fact is, I have good human friends like Caedmon whose company I enjoy, and having an innate propensity to idleness and an easy life, I know which side of my bread is buttered. The fact is, I Care. The Latin name for a cat is 'felix', which means 'happy.' We're happy and purring when we have the attention and the affection of humans, can chow down into a hearty bowl of fresh fish and curl up in front of a fire on a cold winter's night.

And when humans are happy, then so am I. But the politicos and the soothsayers don't want the ordinary humans to be content or self-sufficient. They want them to be desperately poor and permanently dependent on the scraps of rotten food and disinformation they condescend to throw them - which is why the Redistributionists - under the inspirational leadership and tutelage of witty psychopath Guffmund The Brown - kindly brought the Kingdom to a state of bankruptcy and indebtedness to line the coffers of the poor Moneylenders. And his ideological cousins - the Trees and Liberationists - are determined to make sure that the ordinary people pay dearly for all the colossal debts for which they're neither responsible nor liable. Bless.

I have a feeling in my bones that people are starting to realise that the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire) is something we neither want nor need - especially when the feckless puppets and clowns in the Witangemot have voted to sign away even more of our Kingdom's debt to offset the debts of the poor, benighted Greeks..

Dropped

The bells are ringing here in Streonaeshalch, and it's a day of jubilation. The banners are dripping in the heavy showers of rain, and the merry-making activities have been moved indoors to the Moot House to escape the wet. And what is the occasion for these damp festivities? It's to celebrate The Day That Villanous Arch-Prince Ruprecht Evil-Merodach dismissed the services of one of his most trusted Soothsayers. The announcement went out to the Northumbrian Kingdom yesterday - and the subsequent gasp could be heard for miles around - along with the steady chewing of magic mushrooms.

The activities of Nus Utherworld - the disgraced and ancient soothsayer -  have been met with complete shock and abhorrence - or at least from the other soothsayers, who've pontificated about the eavesdropping of the private conversations of distressed gentlefolk as if this were a new and hitherto unknown expression of human depravity. Nus Utherworld had always possessed a reputation for ribaldry, and was noted to have some priapic preoccupations with the sordid private lives of the squalid political and aristocratic sub-classes and Madcaster Untied team members. It's all very sad. The window-licking acolytes of pox-faced Guardy-Ann and her pantomime dame companion Beeby See have been in jubilant mood, as they've seen one of the mighty bastions of anti-Redistributionism fall. Bless.

The rumours are now circulating that Evil-Merodach will be setting on the services of a new soothsayer to replace the discredited one. Nice try, Rupie.

I was talking with Caedmon about this last night, and I found out that he shares my own feeling that those soothsayers who've been making the most of this series of misdemeanours and the consequent fall from grace are those with no shortage of skeletons in their own closets. They just haven't been caught yet. But in these dark and perverse days, the illusion-dwelling Redistributionists and their fly agaric-chewing camp followers are joining forces (and farces) against their detractors, and contrary views are becoming increasingly demonised as 'dangerous', 'extremist' and 'inappropriate.' The gathering of faggots for public burnings follows soon, children. Bring your chestnuts.

I mentioned the whole sorry saga to my mate Feaxede - the fox with an archeological interest. He looked intently at me, and suddenly dropped something rather unwholesome from his back end, and proceeded to walk away. It was by far a more eloquent statement than those I've heard from the soothsayers lately...

Where The Truth Lies

If there's one characteristic that the soothsayers and politicos can never be accused of (including those of honesty and integrity), it is consistency. The more I hear them drivelling on about the death of the Great Enemy Olaf Ladensson, the more puzzled I get, and my whiskers get twitchy. 

There's been ecstatic rejoicing and back-slapping about the demise of a Viking religious fanatic, whose life and activities has been surrounded by what can best be described as a foggy aura of mystery, hearsay and legend. There's no definite proof that he departed this mortal life when and in the manner described; all we have is the accounts of the legend-makers and fantasists, which are paraded as Gospel truth. Furthermore, it has been reported by the soothsayers that the cadaver was disposed of at sea from the side of a boat by some jolly jacks - to the sound of solemn sea-shanties. Thus the legend continues. Was he discovered after years of diligent searching - and did he actually die from a well-aimed arrow to the skull? Or did he actually contract some noxious pox and fade quietly from the scene some years ago? Or is he still alive, selling fly agaric from a vegetable stall in a shambles somewhere? Was anything ever said about him really factually verifiable?

Whether he was real or not - and whether he died in the manner described or not, there's a lot of noise made about him.

In the meantime, real Cyrenian people and their offspring are being accidentally murdered by the ill-equipped raggle-taggle band of anti-O'Daffy rebels, who are being encouraged by Anglo-Saxon and Frankish military advisors, along with their biscuits and pet rabbits, all cheerfully supplied by the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire). These killings happen day by day in the sacred name of Demockery-cy without much fuss.

Apart from the moral bankruptcy of the unwelcome interference in Cyrene, it's bizarre - to say the least - that our soothsayers and politicos expend more hot air and rhetoric over a will o' the wisp fantasy like Olaf Ladensson than the issues of real life... or am I missing something here..?

Bogey On Down

Well - following the excitement and feeding frenzy around the Wedding of Prince Walthelm and Lady Gytha, things had started to settle down. The deferential and sycophantic slobbering of the soothsayers had started to diminish, and once again attention was turning to the Cyrenian war, where the delusional, khat-chewing psychopath O'Daffy has been getting a pasting from the combined forces of the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire), who are acting as military advisors and toothpicks to the raggle-taggle Cyrenian rebels.

And then the announcement came. Olaf Ladensson - the legendary Viking homicidal maniac and religious fanatic - has been killed. Really.

Olaf Ladensson was a legendary figure, whose purported aim was to win the entire civilised Anglo-Saxon world to the Norse customs, gods and the Eddas - the Nordic holy book of fairytales and heroes. A noble aim, if you like that sort of thing - but unfortunately for Olaf and his crew, the majority of Anglo-Saxons simply don't give a monkey's for their offbeat beliefs. Some of them - my own master Caedmon included - are devout Christians, who would never renounce the Gospel. Since Olaf Ladensson recognised this reality, he purportedly made it his mission to use gentle persuasion to tenderly woo the Anglo-Saxons to his beloved religion. So they tell us that he inspired his faithful and equally fanatical followers to go berserk in busy marketplaces, and kill as many Anglo-Saxons as possible. This they did - with deadly effect. They also burned buildings, causing devastation and severe loss of life.

Oddly enough, after the main atrocities attributed to this Viking had been committed, the hysteria whipped up by the politicians and the soothsayers about Olaf Ladensson gently and gradually dwindled. In the meantime, Great Security Measures were taken to intimidate ordinary travelling Anglo-Saxon folk. At every settlement they passed through, their belongings were assiduously searched for weapons - just in case they were actually Viking infiltrators on a crazy suicide mission. Everyone was now a suspect.

And suddenly, after years of silence, lo and behold! Olaf Ladensson has been found and summarily executed. And there are some elections coming up in various places. Hmmm...

If Olaf Ladensson hadn't existed, it would have been necessary for Those Who Know Best to invent him. He's been very useful figure - like Father Christmas, Elvey Preslode or - perhaps more appropriately - The Bogey Man. And now he's gone.

Time for a new one, I suspect...

Now You See Him – Now You Don’t

The word 'cynicism' comes from the Greek word 'kynos' – which is their term for those tail-wagging, barking idiots called Dogs. How dogs are associated with cynicism is beyond me: I'll have to ask Caedmon about that. In my book it should be 'cattacysm'.

Please excuse the articulation of cynicism you're about to read – I realise that it's not a characteristic normally attributed to kitty cats, but regular readers of this blog should be well used to it by now…

Here goes. It's so delightfully reassuring that the politicians and the Royal Family have such highly tuned foresight and moral principles to live by and work with. Like the prophet Moses carving a path through the open waters of the Red Sea, they too - in their own little way - blaze a moral trail for their unreflective and bovine followers to deferentially follow. With exemplars like that, we have every reason to be confident of a great future for the Kingdom of Northumbria.

I feel so much better now: it's akin to the paroxysm of relief experienced in making a long-deferred colorectal statement.

Let me explain. I'm sure you must be aware by now that the soothsayers are ceaselessly haranguing us with hideous tales of barbarity, cruelty and viciousness from the Cyrenian and Syrian despots, who are being relentlessly castigated for robustly resisting attempts to unseat them by their respective detractors, who are allegedly fighting to establish Freedom and Democratic Government in their homelands. Apparently, it's not good practice for a tribal chieftain, king or emperor to defend his position from usurpers. Perhaps they should benignly smile while allowing their opponents to plunder their realms and massacre their households.

If these rebels are fighting their fellow countrymen to establish the kind of 'democracy' enjoyed in the lovely country of Northumbria and the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire), they're in for an ocean of disillusionment. But I'm not the cat to tell them; that's for them to find out by their own bitter experience.

Among the invitees to the Great Royal Wedding (and I saw this on the guest list that Feaxede liberated the other week) was the Emissary of Syria. In view of the fact that the guest list was drawn up a few weeks ago – when the first stirrings of dissent and brutal governmental suppression had manifested themselves – it's a surprising choice, but who am I to question the infinite wisdom of Those Who Matter?

Anyway. One day before the Great Weeding Wedding, it has been announced through the soothsayers that the Syrian Emissary's invitation has been withdrawn.

Hardly has the poor fellow dusted off his ceremonial robes, scimitar and turban when he's had to put them all away again. It says a lot for courtesy, doesn't it? What kind of imbeciles make invitations that they subsequently retract? No, I don't understand, either. And with forethought like that, we're really going places, folks.

Caesar Opportunity

We're half awake in a fake empire.
The National: Fake Empire (Bryce Dessner)


If I were to take on board all of the misery peddled by the soothsayers and suchlike, I'm quite sure I'd be a neurotic, gibbering kitty by now. Day after day pours forth a further torrent of gloom and despondency from the soothsayers, flavoured by all kinds of alarming developments in the world of human beings.

Cuts, Health Scares, Murders, Battles, Wars, Pestilences, Plagues, Poxes, Pizza, Tax Increases, Global Warming, Mildew and Rising Damp are all standard fare on the gloom-monger's breakfast table. And, of course, there's more of the same for lunch, tea and supper too. And how about a tasty nibble of Desolation between meals? It won't spoil your appetite. Much.

But a lively Christian faith balanced with a sense of humour and ridicule get you a long way, and they go far to help me regain a balanced perspective on the world. And when I hear about Hermit - the half-witted henchman of King Jose Borracho of the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire), I can't help but smile. Bless his little padded jacket ;-)

It appears that the Emperor Caesar Borracho has - in his unbounded wisdom and magnanimity - wheeled Herman out for an hour or two, and even permitted him to move his mouth and to utter quasi-intelligible noises to a congregation of window-licking lackeys and soothsayers. Now, that's a very dangerous undertaking, since it's by no means predictable what the dolt is going to say. But life is full of risks, isn't it?  Just ask any out-of-work Health And Safety Administrator for details.

And Hermit hasn't disappointed. He stated that he - singlehandedly - well, with a teensy-weensy bit of help from the Franks, the Anglo-Saxons, the Jutes, the Danes, the Gauls, the Dacians, the Magyars and Uncle Tom Cobley and all - has successfully prevented O'Daffy - the chandelier-swinging psychopathic despot over Cyrene - from beating his rebellious opponents to a pulp. Not one innocent person has died as a result of the Imaginary Empire's military looting, pillaging and sacking  adventures. One more stunning triumph for the emerging Beast From The Sea - Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire). Hooray! Rejoice with me, people.

Consequently, there have been parades, flags and celebrations here in Streonaeshalch. There's been dancing and the unrestrained drinking of ale and mead in the streets; the bunting has been flapping merrily in the breeze. When I asked some half-cut Saxon youth what he was celebrating, he looked at me blankly and managed to say through slurred words that he had no idea. But everyone else was celebrating, so he was simply joining in. He then went off to disgorge the entire content of his stomach somewhere. For understandable reasons I didn't hang around.

I can't help but cheer up when I hear deluded claptrap like that. There's a saying that those whom the gods wish to destroy they make mad first; certainly Nebuchadnezzar learned that lesson from the Almighty - but he was fortunate enough to have his sanity restored. The empires of men have always been established on the same illusions and fictions used to perpetuate them. The problem is that there are always casualties resulting from their delusions of grandeur and adequacy. Sooner or later, something is going to sink its sharp, needle-like teeth into the padded posteriors of the kings, the princes, the satraps, the nobles and the hangers-on who wallow in their self-importance and feast off the ill-gotten fruits of the labours of the serfs. Its name is Reality.

Look Left, Look Riot

Monday again - and I'm pooped! It's been such a busy weekend, what with helping Caedmon to fill in the Census forms for a number of poor illiterate Streonaeshalch residents and everything. At least that's over. I managed to persuade Caedmon not to fill in the 'religion' slot on his own form. He reluctantly agrees that it makes sense. Fortunately, kittycats are exempt from filling the forms in, so I haven't had that dubious pleasure. However, I did manage to put 'Brain Surgeon' down as the occupation of one large and intellectually-challenged gentleman. I was relieved that Caedmon didn't notice - otherwise my intestines would now be gracing a stringed instrument somewhere…

Census aside, there's been such a lot going on lately. My poor little feline brain is reeling from the relentless cascade of events that have been taking place this last couple of days.

On Saturday I heard all about the Big Protest down in Yorvik, the Capital City of Northumbria. Myriads of diversity coordinators, schoolmasters, pigeon quota accountants, fish psychologists and assorted environmental administrators converged on the city, waving placards bearing unintelligible and badly-written slogans damning the Tree/Liberationist Alliance Administration for their brutal cuts to public expenditure. They were accompanied by assorted partisans, artisans, labourers and hangers-on from the various trade guilds (skilled and unskilled), schoolchildren, toddlers, university students (complete with with bibs and comforters) and - to everyone's surprise - representatives of the concerned gentlefolk from the leafy shires and hundreds. An uneasy alliance, I suspect.

They headed en masse for a large area of common land where people usually put horses, pigs and sheep to graze, and they were addressed in grand style by - among other tub-thumpers - Edweird the Milliner, the Dear Leader of the fly agaric-led Redistributionist Faction. What a day it was! There were celebrity luvvies, musicians and picnics, and the mead and ale flowed freely. The sound of jaws masticating the magic mushrooms broke the occasional tranquillity of the afternoon. Until Edweird spoke. And the faithful followers weren't disappointed. He loudly proclaimed that this was a fateful day, and that he was Boadicea the Briganti Warrior Queen, who was once regarded as a British heroine. As the rhetorical dams burst, he went on to  proclaim that he was a Berliner (which is a kind of Westphalian doughnut) - and the crowd roared its approval. (I wonder what flavour the jam was? My preference is strawberry.) Those mushrooms must have been wonderful, Eddy boy. How's your guts and your head today?

Meanwhile, elsewhere in Yorvik, other protests were happening. These protesters were a less sedate and civilised bunch. They were young thugs, dressed in black and waving clubs and anything they could lay their hands on. They set buildings alight, and scuffles inevitably ensued with the Municipal Costumed Thugs. These protesters were mainly zealots of the Redistributionist Workers Party - a chandelier-swinging, halfbaked offshoot from the official political faction, which has designs on a worldwide Red empire. I don't know why they name themselves as Redistributionist Workers - most of them have no idea what work actually is, as they're too busy plotting the downfall of the established order, chewing hallucinogenic fungi and drinking mead and ale at the expense of the public purse.

After the magic mushrooms wore off, the rioters were either arrested or allowed to go home with a thick ear to their anxious mothers, where a warm bowl of porridge awaited them. How nice. The poor citizens of Yorvik are picking up the pieces and tidying up the mess. Once again.

But what these imbecilic window-lickers have failed to accept is that they themselves are the reason for the financial crisis that have made the expenditure cuts necessary, since they've all been cheerfully draining the taxpayers' money on their frivolous, illusory enterprises for centuries. But I don't think they're listening. Their brains aren't wired to accept unpalatable things like facts. That's why the magic mushrooms are so popular, I suppose...

Oswine's Bellicose Budget Bunfight

'Those who can make you believe absurdities can make you commit atrocities' - Voltaire

Today is a lovely day here in the lovely country of Northumbria. I'm not merely saying this because of the spring sunshine, which is causing the early flowers and leaf buds to emerge; it's a wonderful day because Oswine - the Supreme Treasurer and Dogsbody-In-Chief of the Tree/Liberationist administration - and Caedmeron's right hand man - is announcing the Budget. Hooray for Ossy! Everyone is so happy!

I know this because I wandered through the town of Streonaeshalch earlier to watch the fishermen unloading their catches and sorting them on the quayside. (I often get some fresh titbits from those of them who are kindly disposed towards cats.) Everyone seemed to be very animated about the Budget. I've come to the conclusion that they're all looking forward to making a greater contribution towards the good of the community at large - and the politicians in particular. I'm also sure that they're thrilled at the prospect of increasing degrees of impoverishment as the cost of bread, suet, ale, mead, oats and firewood increases once again.

Without a doubt, Beeby See has had a valuable part to play in setting the general mood of optimism for the populace; as the country's most favoured soothsayer, she cheerfully rabbits on about the cuts in public services - and like some modern-day Jeremiah, she vividly describes the apocalyptic desolation to come. Everyone loves to hear her pronouncements, and eagerly hangs on her every halitosis-breathed word. The Tree/Liberationist administration also contributes to the general happiness of the population by declaring that there's no more money in the Kingdom, because the magic mushroom-led Redistrbutionists took great care to ensure that the Kingdom was brought to bankruptcy in their last Witangemot administration under the maniacal Guthmund The Brown. To do this they created legions of fantasy jobs for their fellow fantasists in order to promote their support and loyalty. Caedmeron is now repeatedly telling all and sundry that hard decisions have had to be taken to bring the country back to a place of solvency once more, and funds for important social and welfare projects are being slashed.

There's also a degree of excitement about the Cyrenian War initiated by Caedmeron the other day, and the soothsayers are being eagerly sought for up-to-date information and comment on what's happening. She cheerfully regales her audience with tales of bloodshed and various heroic deeds of carnage.

Everyone wants to see the khat-chewing, chandelier-swinging O'Daffy deposed from power, so that the hapless Cyrenians can enjoy the same blessings as the Anglo-Saxon Northumbrians. I assume from this that they would also like to enjoy lovely Budget Days like ours. That'll be nice for them; they can share the experience of ever-increasing taxation to fund the lavish lifestyles of their new democratic political masters. And I'm sure they would also love to have diversity coordinators, pigeon psychiatrists and tree quota accountants to further enrich their existence.

But it's all very peculiar: while there's such excitement about these current budgetary and bellicose activities, nobody has yet explained to me where the money for this Cyrenian war is coming from. Is it from the back pocket of King Jose Borracho, the power-crazed thug chieftain who - with his faithful half-witted henchman Hermit - heads up the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire)?

Something doesn't add up...

Census Working Overtime

 

Every ten years, Anglo-Saxons are required to fill in a census form to let the Northumbrian authorities know that they’re still alive – and that they know their own names and addresses. This year is Census Year. Hooray!

This piece of imbecility was devised by previous kings so that they could keep track of their loyal and happy subjects, thus enabling them to boast to their fellow monarchs about how many people they were exploiting, oppressing and patronising.

It was decided to impose the census upon the population despite the hard lessons that King David had to learn after he’d carried out a headcount of his own Israelite people in disobedience to the specific command of the Almighty. Some king lessons are never learned…

This year, our noble King Alhfrith and his aristocratic cronies have taken the decision to extend the scope of the census questionnaire this time. Predictably, their highly-paid lackeys in the Witangemot are reassuring the public through the soothsayers that there is no reason for alarm: everything will be simple and the information supplied is guaranteed to be safe. Whatever. My pal Feaxede the fox is safe with the chickens...

For the impressive number of illiterates in the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria, this census poses both a threat and a farce, since there are severe financial penalties for those who don’t fill the form and submit it; the result is that those blessed with the gift of literacy are burdened with the responsibility of asking the feckless idiots the questions they’re unable to read, and then to write the entries to the form on their behalf. Needless to say, a great deal of money is to be made by enterprising scribes. I’ll be helping Caedmon out when he does his bit for the hapless. He does it out of Christian charity, so he charges nothing; despite this, he’s rewarded by substantial draughts of mead and ale from the grateful parishioners. Things can get rather interesting after a couple of home visits…

What questions are they going to ask Northumbrians this time? Well, apart from the usual name, address and number of kids guff, they’ll be asking things like:

What do you eat for breakfast? (Sheer idle curiosity. Serves no useful purpose.)

How much do you weigh? (To find out those who are fat so that they can mock and shame them)

What colour is your skin? (Silly question, since most poverty-stricken Northumbrians don’t know how to wash, so they all look a dirty brown)

How many cats do you own? Are they licensed? (To raise more money through fines)

Do you spread butter or dripping on your bread? (To find out whom to bully and lecture about eating habits)

How many horses or donkeys do you possess? (To assess the means of transportation)

Do you ride them – or use them for work purposes? (To decide which tax to levy on the animals)

Have you eaten any rabbits in the last ten years? If so, how many? (To work out the number of bunnies consumed in the Northumbrian diet)

They’re also going to ask what each person’s religion is. In the future this will enable the King - when he’s in an oppressive mood – to round up all the Edda-reading Vikings and pen them up somewhere and beat the living daylights out of them. As you can imagine, the Vikings are writing “Atheist” on their forms.

Those who write “Christian” on their census forms are likely to be marked for persecution by the aggressively irreligious, fly agaric-chewing secularist psychotics who are working hard to eradicate the Christian Faith from the public consciousness.

So, why are there so many questions on the census? There are two simple answers.

First of all, the Northumbrian State is overbearingly intrusive, and thus wants to gather as much information as possible from its people by force so that it has more means by which to intimidate, patronise and bully the people.

Secondly, to create more non-jobs for the out-of work pigeon psychologists, fish quota accountants, cat license administrators and diversity co-ordinators that have been cast into the outer darkness of unemployment by the Tree/Liberationist Alliance government. What the State takes with one hand, it gives with another. In this way, the data can be assiduously collated by the mindless slaves. Some of them will certainly go mad as a result.

I can hardly contain my excitement...

The Prince And The Porkers

This is such a busy week for your moggy; I was really hoping to take some time out - you know, catching mice and kitty stuff like that - but once again, I've been provoked by yet another episode in the continuing saga of our window-licking superiors. Why can't they simply let a cat have some peace for once? Pah!

This time we've been hearing about our esteemed Prince Ethelbert, who recently appeared in pomp and splendour before the Supreme Soviet of the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman, nor an empire). Prince Ethelbert has given a speech. Whoop-de-do. Hold on to your hats, people.

Now, if there were any sentient beings bearing the slightest vestige of human resemblance who certainly do not deserve the natural gift of communication, then this man must surely be one of them; in fact, it is this cat's considered opinion that he should be confined to a field somewhere, feeding pigs, mending fences or doing other constructive things. Over the years, this aristocratic buffoon has ably demonstrated to the rest of humanity - as well as those of us of the feline realm (and of course, not forgetting my mate Feaxede the fox) - his unbounded capacity to offload his phenomenal ignorance and spout complete rubbish. He's already successfully carved for himself a career by upsetting people infinitely more knowledgeable and experienced than he.

Our Clown Prince - at the invitation of the pig-faced Emperor Jose Borracho - has this time demonstrated his lack of knowledge and understanding of Climate Science; his expertise in this delicate subject can be considered to be inversely proportional to the size of his ears.

In his speech to the assembled adoring herds hordes, he suggested that all those people who cast doubt on the Holy Climate Change Dogma (taught by His Holiness Bishop Georges Moonbat, the fly agaric-chewing sage and spiritual leader of the drug-crazed World Climate Disaster Cult) should be held accountable. How will they face the next generation? Great question, Princey boy.
 
Guess what he's been chewing, guys..

Well, I never. Who'd have imagined that such a delicate petal of this lovely realm of Northumbria should come out with such imbecility?

It underlines to me my suspicion that this fellow and his wealthy associates have more than a vested interest in the success of these magic mushroom-inspired theologies. Methinks he and his family want to use the good offices of the crazed and deluded Bishop Georges Moonbat and his wild-eyed acolytes to keep the underlings poor, deprived and hungry. Such is the measure of their esteem for their subjects. After all, if honest men are no longer allowed to light fires and burn wood for their hearths and their forges for the sake of 'saving the planet', how are they going to keep warm, cook food and make a living? The irony of it all is that the Prince lives in unspeakable luxury and wealth, and has thousands of log fires to keep his houses and his lackeys warm. Bring up some more standards, boys: we haven't got enough to go round..

Lash the serfs a bit more - keep 'em under the whip and squeeze more groats out of them. Whatever.

It's often said in these parts that it's better to be thought a fool than to open your mouth and remove all doubt. Prince Lugfest Ethelbert is a living demonstration of the wisdom of this saying.

I'd love to pay him a visit in his sumptuous residence. I have something to offer that would enhance his refined palate...

Led By The Nose

Each new day bears another eloquent testimony to the knuckle-dragging imbecility of those donkeys who pretend to preside over the governance of this lovely Kingdom of Northumbria.

As I've previously explained, the Kingdom has a monarch and a cardboard-cutout constitutional democracy, which is designed to pacify naïve natives and impress visitors; it's currently administered by a combination of 2 otherwise rival political factions: the Trees and the Liberationists. This state of affairs – or so we are told - arose because the battered and bewildered Northumbrians failed to vote for any one faction in convincing enough numbers to secure an overall majority (despite the extensive and assiduous vote-rigging which went on in some Redistributionist circles). Horse trading therefore ensued between the respective faction leaders, resulting in the seemingly blessed compromise solution presented to us. Whatever.

Naturally, when 2 factions hold the reins of this fantasy coalition government, each side is obliged to abandon its original political objectives; manifestos are torn up before the ink is even dry. (It would be misleading of me to suggest that they are forced to abandon their principles, since it's evident that they don't have one between them.) Each faction in the alliance counterbalances the other; this inhibits any of the fanatical and bizarre ideas that might otherwise have taken shape as policy with which to bludgeon and afflict the long-suffering populace. The fact that the ratio of Northumbrians represented by the 2 colluding ruling factions doesn't correspond to a 50-50 split has no bearing on the matter; the Liberationists only represent an insignificant percentage of doddery ancients and wild-eyed eccentrics, but for all this, they wield considerable power over the otherwise bizarre and fanatical aspirations of the Trees.

With all this in mind, it strikes me as rather odd that the seedy and disreputable honourable and esteemed members of the Redistributionist faction – now outnumbered by the paired factions in government - have recently adopted the habit of referring to the present administration as 'the Tree-led government.' This new tactic is probably intended to lay the blame for any disasters squarely at the feet of the Trees, who are sworn enemies of the Redistributionists.

In view of the fact that the Trees – like themselves – don't have the full weight of public support, this epithet flies in the face of reality. The Trees are in no position to lead anything. (Although I'm given to understand that at the end of the morning the Tree Leader Caedmeron is usually the first man out of the Witangemot assembly hall, and he leads the way so that he gets his lavish and expensive public-funded lunch before anyone else.) But as the Franks often say, 'Noblesse oblige.'

I'm not sure that Edweird the Milliner has enough influence to lead himself out of a paper bag - let alone the faction he heads up, so he has no room to talk.

So from now on I'm going to refer to Edweird the Milliner and his cohort of slavering drones droning slaves cronies as the Fly Agaric–led Opposition, since that seems to be the active ingredient behind their incoherent and delirious blitherings.

Just thought I'd let you know…